Calm Before The Storm

Two days before the trial, the training grounds lay drenched in moonlight, the cold air thick with the metallic scent of dust and fractured stone. Kain stood at its center, chest heaving, long sword angled forward and short blade held low, his stance precise rather than practiced. Across from him, the golem no longer resembled the pristine construct he had first faced over a week ago. Its stone body was carved with deep gouges and fractures, one arm torn clean from its socket and discarded several paces away, while chunks of its plated torso lay scattered like fallen armor. This was not the mark of a single lucky exchange, but of relentless survival carved stroke by stroke.

Kain’s eyes glowed faintly, not with the distant haze of exhaustion nor the glassy emptiness of the trance that once overtook him, but with something sharper. The world no longer felt slowed unnaturally, nor did it overwhelm his senses. Instead, everything existed in perfect alignment.

“I did it,” he murmured, disbelief threading through the exhaustion. “This is it...”

The words left him with a long, trembling exhale as he finally lowered his weapons, the tension bleeding from his posture. His arms screamed in protest, muscles trembling under the weight of overuse, but it was nothing compared to the agony of those first nights when each forced attempt to grasp that state felt like tearing his mind apart from the inside. This pain was earned, it felt honest and familiar.

He glanced at the battered golem and let out a quiet laugh.

“I am definitely going to hear it when they find out I wrecked a training construct without permission.”

Kain closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, turning inward as he assessed himself. The soreness ran deep, settling into bone and muscle alike, but it no longer frightened him. Compared to the raw terror of failing again and again as he brushed against something profound only to lose it instantly. The current feeling was manageable and it showed progress.

“Who would’ve thought…” he muttered, opening his eyes. “That a technique buried in a novel would be the key. Mantra...”

Mantra had changed everything as it was a technique that came from one’s path, not some mystical shortcut, but as a way to anchor his intent, to quiet the chaos long enough for it to surface naturally rather than by force. It was not perfect nor effortless, but it was real.

Now, there was nothing more he could do.

“My body needs rest,” he admitted softly. “And probably a healer…again. They are definitely sick of me by now.”

As he turned to leave, his steps slow but steady, something made him pause. Kain stopped and looked back at the silent golem, still standing despite its shattered form, unwavering even in defeat. Without hesitation, he straightened and bowed deeply, sincerely.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For helping me reach this point.”

He turned away once more, unaware of how the moonlight struck the yellow manastone embedded within the golem’s chest. The glow reflected faintly against the broken stone, shadows bending in such a way that, if one were inclined to imagine, it almost resembled a smile.

----

Night settled heavily over Valemont Keep, the kind of quiet that pressed inward rather than soothed. Kain sat on the floor of his room with his back against the foot of the bed, bandages wrapped around his forearms, ribs, and thigh. He flexed his fingers slowly, watching the way they trembled before steadying, each movement accompanied by a dull, familiar ache that had long since stopped frightening him. Pain had become routine, almost reassuring in its consistency.

He pushed himself upright and reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head and letting it fall to the side. In the dim light, his reflection stared back at him from the glass. His body had changed and there was no denying it now. The softness that once defined him was gone, replaced not by bulk, but by something leaner and more functional. Muscle striations traced across his shoulders and arms, definition carved by repetition rather than talent, forged by exhaustion and refusal rather than gifted strength. This was not the body of a prodigy, nor a noble blessed by fate, but one built inch by inch through relentless destruction and repair.

In his previous life, such progress would have been impossible. Muscles did not recover like this. The body did not endure this level of abuse day after day. But here, healing magic blurred the line between recklessness and persistence, allowing him to break himself repeatedly and rise again at a pace that defied reason. It was a miracle and he had exploited it without hesitation, training without rest for nearly an entire month.

Kain exhaled slowly, running a hand through his damp hair.

“But it’s still not enough.”

The words left him quietly, without bitterness. A month ago, that realization would have crushed him. The weakness. The inevitability. The fear that effort alone could never bridge the gap between himself and those who had awakened. Back then, being unawakened felt like a verdict already passed, an invisible chain dragging him toward an ending he could not escape.

Now, strangely, the fear felt distant.

What remained was something heavier, quieter like a steady acceptance that even if the end had already been written, he would still walk every line of it on his own terms. The man reflected in the glass no longer looked like someone waiting to be saved, nor like someone drowning in resentment. His lavender eyes were sharper now.

‘Am I changing the future…or only the way I face it?’

The question lingered, unanswered.

‘Logic was cruelly consistent. Henry would defeat him. That was what everyone believed, whether they spoke it aloud or not. A mid-level adept against an unawakened noble, no amount of effort, no matter how obsessive, no matter how unnatural his improvement appeared, could change that truth.’

Kain leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes as the memory returned unbidden, the sensation of that fleeting state, when the world had slowed and his body had moved before thought could form.

‘I have not enough time to practice it, but maybe it was the key to something more than survival. Tomorrow would decide everything.’
 

Kain exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible in the quiet of his room, and accepted the truth he had been circling since the moment he first acknowledged the possibility of failure. If he lost, exile would follow. That much was inevitable. What remained uncertain was Sophia’s judgment, still unspoken, still hanging over him like a blade poised to fall. Execution was not an impossibility, no matter how distant it felt when left unnamed, and the fact that she had delayed her decision until after the trial offered little comfort. Mercy was not something he could count on, only something he could hope for.

‘I need contingencies, he thought. Hope alone won’t keep me alive.’

He rose from the floor, the faint ache in his muscles responding like a familiar companion, and pulled his shirt back on before moving to the small table near the window. From a drawer he retrieved a notebook and pen, laying them out with care. If there was one advantage he possessed that no one else could take from him, it was knowledge, fragmented, incomplete, but still dangerous in the right hands.

“I need to write down everything I remember,” he murmured, dipping the quill. “Anything that might help.”

The academy arc would begin next year. Eternia Academy, the turning point of the novel, the stage where the true story unfolded. Lucian, the protagonist, would arrive there as an unknown and leave as something far greater, meeting the heroines one by one through trials, conflicts, and shared struggle until their paths became inseparable. Kain remembered those chapters vividly, but not because of Lucian’s rise, but because of the quiet footnote where his own name appeared.

‘Kain Valemont, deceased.

It had been mentioned almost in passing, during a conversation between Eira and Lucian. Eira had spoken of him then, not as the villain he had been, but as someone she had once known, someone whose death had weighed heavier on her heart than anyone realized. Even knowing the truth of what the original Kain had done, she had mourned him.’

The thought tightened something in his chest.

“She was too good for him,” Kain muttered quietly, the quill pausing mid-stroke. “Too good for me, too.”

‘His death had occurred in the Forest of Hollowreach. A place that should not exist. Despite the northern cold, Hollowreach flourished unnaturally dense, overgrown, choked with poisonous flora and swarms of venomous insects that thrived on the corrupted mana saturating the land. It was a training ground for Valemont warriors, dangerous but manageable for those who had awakened their aura. The strongest monsters within rarely exceeded Aura Adept, making it ideal for tempering soldiers before they faced true battle.’

“For an unawakened, it was a death sentence.” Kain murmured before continuing.

‘The poisonous mana alone would rot the lungs and blood of anyone without an aura core to resist it. It was no surprise the original Kain had died there. Exiled, unprepared, and desperate, he would have chosen between Hollowreach or the northern mountains. The mountains where monsters of the beyond roamed.’

Kain stared at the parchment, the implications settling with cold clarity.

“If I couldn’t survive Hollowreach,” he said quietly, “what chance do I have repeating that fate?”

‘None. Not unless something changed drastically and there was no guarantee I could awaken in time of my exile. No, the forest was not a path forward. It was a grave waiting to be filled.’

Slowly, deliberately, he set the pen down.

“No,” Kain said, resolve hardening in his chest. “If exile comes…then the only viable path is north.”

‘The mountains were worse, more dangerous, less forgiving.’

But they were not predetermined.

And for the first time since arriving in this world, Kain understood the difference.

Memory stirred, an arc he remembered vividly. Long after Kain’s death, Eira had brought Lucian back to Valemont Keep. Together they ventured into the Bloodfrost Mountains after visiting his gravestone before fate intervened. There, they encountered the Everbound, a colossal titan of ice and stone, an ancient sentinel that should never have crossed the Valemont border.

‘That encounter had nearly killed them. But it also led them to something else.

An ancient cave buried beneath glacial stone. It held other secrets, but when they got there, there was only a single artifact left, the Argent Veil. The rest of the cave was destroyed, although it was not mention when, it was recent based on the discovery of packaged foods scraps that was found nearby. The walls were broken, Eira mentioned in the novel that there were symbols on the wall, but with all but a small portion destroyed, the original meaning was lost. This means maybe if I head there immediately, the cave will still be intact and whatever it hides, I’ll be the first to find it. The ring itself was also special, a consumable ring capable of altering one’s appearance completely. Not an illusion, but a perfected disguise, one that could deceive Aura Masters and High Mages alike, up to the sixth circle. Once broken, the ring vanished forever, its purpose fulfilled.’

“Exactly what I need...to enter the academy, I would need to disappear. Kain Valemont could not exist there, not as an exile, not as a disgrace. But another identity? A nameless commoner, a wandering swordsman? That was possible. The only way to survive was to follow the path of the protagonist from the shadows...not to interfere, not to compete, but to exist and carve out a life.”

Kain leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as the weight of the story settled over him. Each major arc had claimed lives. Characters he remembered fondly, some heroic, some tragic, had died in moments that made the novel unforgettable and painful in equal measure.

‘If I can change my fate...’

The thought lingered, heavy and dangerous.

‘Maybe I can change theirs too.’

The pen fell from his fingers, clattering softly onto the table. Outside, the night pressed in close, silent and watchful. Tomorrow would decide whether this was the beginning of something new or the final chapter of Kain Valemont.